Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

 天安门 | Tiananmen

Social tranquility | Soon it will be time | to fit you with your wheels | Push you gently | to the summer, waiting for you | subdued sunshine tailed | on vacuous shopping malls | Hidden in the corner | of a plot of rapture | scarlet and carnelian, mushroom and purple | sculpted honey dripping towards the desired | jewel of stasis | riding on the hoods | fleeting light on lotus feet | escape, for a moment, the avid | collectors of order | Appear, illicitly, and we will | put you in a book of vanishing | Besides, effort to | resist | only rushes to rupture | unseemly | fluid | bodies broken | stoven in | to where the clouds | have loosened entirely, lastly, from our names | Look up: hawk | hovers to a hole in the sky | all tension and suspension points | to the dropping | bliss of the dive | Run as you will | as fast as you can | we’ll catch you into your new formation | you will fall to rounds | or just fall in | with your brothers and sisters | who hunt you down | to your opposition | The night | thickens and the moon thins | in an old, old illusion | Twist and buck | cry and mourn | squeal and riot | but when you come to | sense how right | the tracks fit to you | feel how smooth | the spin, spin, spin of your wheels

In lotus shoes | erotically contained | like a mist His gaze | parts and swirls for her | She feels its moisture | in her lungs | upon her nipples tingling | like tiny bells | a fairy clatter | of dispersing pearls | from a torn | rope | necklace | Wrapped | tight | her limbs constrained | to beauty | so dainty, her walk | on the bound feet, stubs | of nature | elegant, cultured hooves | Cover her | with glances | a tightened grace | you are | tautened to admire | but looking with such living | uneasily conceals | a warning, as a closed stove | conceals a fire: if you remove the shoes and bindings, the aesthetic feeling will be destroyed forever

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2014)

True things are real | but untrue things are real, too | and we can live by them

Paranoia in the office | the little putsch and coup | the wristwatch waiting with its tiny increments | putting the tick to the tock and the possible cancer | Ginkgo leaves in November | Damp in the flat, mould on the walls | the route through to the comic book hero | cut off | a smell of too much roses in my migraine | Thinking we’re right right to the end | wrapped in the bubble of the era’s thoughts | she says Christ, you’re not even human! | how could she be so wrong, make | such hurtful errors? | Using both thumbs, press out his eyes | tell the blind about the cliffs and the sea-green sea | the gulls with their bags of guts | the thief with her bag of jewels | and Judas in a gilded bible | and Einstein eating bagels | I can’t help it if I’m | low sometimes | why can’t you | see things from my side? | Flip off the head | open up the workings | each instant with its matrix | of perfect treachery | choose | this direction | support | that leader | take the wrong path it will still | lead somewhere and | somewhere is better than | nowhere, right? | I never listen to a word she says | she says | In the gallery | a Madonna with a still-born child | a carefully curated | road to the future | It’s time to change | Ordinary in the leavings, the promises

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2016)

Room peeled | left glistening with want | A solicitors’ space for the flowers, dry | air to be dripped into my eyes and mouth, but | much later | for now | we can still feel the majestic | river, ever | attentive to its task of flowing | Bridal | days | Brilliant | betrothal of frost, fine hoar for the glinting shoes of fairytale horses | and you see it, unlacing | lacing | unlacing… | unveiling… | A rich and cultured | resting | place | Then why am I | hunting my class enemy with guns | across black rocks, and glaciers | ice floes, bones | sticking out of my flesh, a martyr’s | parsimony, oh so | la-di-da? | All | fur coat and no knickers, I | find unrest wherever I can, wherever a mirror | shows me in | (and mirrors always | show me in…) | Surveyors pursue deer over our carpet | woven in a bankers’ pattern | Under our feet | miles down | silent crystals gather mass and would | sparkle as brutal chandeliers | if only they could be | broken up | into the light

Seafarers’ shoes | touch earth strangely | Flint cobbles | an arch | of whale bones | each sight a last | sight of land | New soles | for my love | buckles of pure | German silver | hear the sweet, pertinent ring | of their smiths’ | hammers in the northern air | cold | east coast stay | Frost, too, in the maid’s high | voice raised | like a toast | to death and her children | and to other such travellers | in song | Should I | go, I will only | go, my dear | as the sea | goes in waves | from the pebble shore | that is | only a short way, only | ebb to flow | for you | alone | having put all these journeys in me | put in me, too, ever only one | return

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2013)

There were dragonflies in your ears | The soft fume of your voice was wavering | the evening grew drowsy | no more children | to be had | Warmer than mother | the peach rush | long over | let fall | the orphan summer | Across the bridge | car headlamps were coming on | they went superfluous | and we watched them | all go | from the tall grasses | to chatter of the city and the shore | the conquering | the built careers | The nape of your neck | under your | lifted hair | a single yacht | left on the sea | turned about | I blew, softly and your voice | went out

Honeysun | late in the era | to the fuzzy | pulse of bees | can you hear | your voice | fading? | Draw apart | the velvet curtains | reveal the stage | flattened | mountains of the bed | clocks still | on sentry duty | the front door | open | The prompt | distant | crack of an axe | from the orchard | a brush | of far-off | falling | Candles | floating to a western dawn | stay calm | zoom out | in a certain | lack of pity | First | to touch | heads of small flowers | the perfect | quiet | a dry | sea floor | blood flush | in the paper veins | we stirred | with the sound | of children’s voices | coming back to us

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2015)

Back to the party | No one is interested in what you say, except the boy, and he is later | when you are dead and there are palm trees | If you had money, this place would be different | it would appear to be | more under your control | and though appearances can be deceptive | deception sustained for any amount of time | will do for truth, and besides | appearances can be veracious, too | They say it was her greatest work | her most radical | I say | it is full of tired modernist/postmodernist clichés | most of this was done | back in the day | the 19th/early 20th century day | and the rest | no one gives a fuck, or if they do | they should get out more | go where real things are happening to real people, principally | to me | Back to the party | the brains being peeled one by one | and the drugs kicking in | all the promises you made | about loyalty and beauty | flushed down the pupil | into the unverified place | a darkness | conjuring the various spectres of faith | the tried and tested | routines | operates | And Jim has this great trick with matches | he looks pretty cool in his cowboy shirt and hair | slicked back like a windswept sumo’s | while Ted is hawking his theory | of itinerant concepts founding a groundless reality | but no one is interested

Turn up the music, turn down the thoughts | a beat will get you through | when logic breaks apart | Go to the bar where the pilots go | in Shanghai | where boys and girls | dressed as mermen and mermaids | swim in glass tanks | swim and dance | of course they have plans too! | Or go to where the crowds are going | will you find | what they are finding there? | Though England made me, MDMA saved me | now haul up the golden anchor | and listen to the glassy sound | of the breeze ruffling crystal sails | make landfall on a weekend island | of furballs and murmurs | and paywalls and murders… | On background TV | in a serious programme | a trivial guru is asking | Of course, doesn’t it follow that | if, as life goes global, the intensity and regularity of the state | we may call solitude grows, then | now, Jim, my man, tell me | how did we find our way | into this Killjoys’ Kingdom? | We make the choices, or so | we are told | We are in control, or so | we are told | We are making progress, or so… | We like the rush | the forward momentum | infinitely prolonged | or the illusion thereof | flight without landing | cruise without ports | dreams without sleeping | When you wake | crowned with seashells and pearls and intricate bones | your body smells of decaying kelp | on a humid shore | where Jules, dressed as Pierrot, stares catatonic into a mirror | and the avaricious waves | paw pale sands | Back to the office, a few hours now till Monday | reaping less and less | what more and more | strangers sow | And though one is lonely | in her cap and braid | and one is lonely | in his sequins and someone | else’s  hair | if you are a passenger | go to where the pilots go | and stay there

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2014)

The signs were there before them | though unread | or read only in such a way | as to remain | essentially | unread | This was the netherworld | a kingdom of shadows without light | without boundaries | without a king | and travellers to this realm | arrived with certain intentions… | Waylaying | was the custom there | a crabwise scatter in the brain | detours along high ridges | clatter of pebbles dislodged from hooves | dropping into dry ravines | “shrouds” forever | rhyming with “clouds” | infinite digression | slow | inevitable | evaporation of precious fluids | chemistry that destroyed | the unique element | under study | the ferries delayed | post undelivered | visas out of date | Moratorium | Embargo | Gloomy governments | applying their cherished | veto to the future | more mist | longer delays | fraying promises | vanished messengers

Bold heroes, with their italic smiles, brusque with inferiors | charming | dashing | to the silken hodgepodge of reversing dreams | will sapped to spurts of pleasure | languor of slow-rising smokes in airless rooms | ottomans | marooned in boudoirs | abandon their quests to conquer | to enforce | to reach and purify | but in the limp zigzags of a serpentine milking | explore the torpor of the “lesser”, the “lower” | the base | the foul | the small | confines of an easier truth | a greater lie | and are feted for their failures | encouraged to remain just one more day… | They were counting lemons using oranges | counting swallows using crows | there was | I maintain | a fundamental irresolution | in their method | gunfighters in the wrong saloon | still firing | though the age of violence | was long over, or at least, passé | the bloody pots of skulls upturned | the gore spilled out (and parts of teeth) | reminding of rugs of pomegranate and bronze | flung over walls in distant | Egypt or Armenia | Forest of dust | an alley trapped | in your childhood | a way between | snatches of flashes | lights hung on the tips of bending grasses | browning in the late autumn sun | hours lying on my back | in cuckoo-haunted meadows | reading the brilliant works of that region | The Cat’s Gift to the Mouse | the Poems of Tichy | and the cool, melancholic | Firefly Epic | Perhaps you won’t believe me when I say | we’ll all experience the day | when the mirror refuses you a visa | and you find | you cannot pass your time | the same way you’ve always done before | You see | the nature of the enterprise | has slowly changed | even as you promoted it | the terrain has been | gradually altered through the obvious means | of your journey | yet | you are surprised: these mountains? That valley… | The cold river | the plain | littered with dead horses and dead riders | many of them young | many of them innocent, you insist, whatever | that means | It was a venture | you approached light-heartedly | as in general life should be approached | not facetiously, not disdainfully, nor cynically, nor with a lazy mindless lack of bright attention | but with a sense of perspective | a joy in the near and simple things | awareness of the gifts received in lieu of destinations | a proper and respectful | sense of the two immeasurable | blocks of darkness that line your life | for your own travails at least | a degree of the devil-may-care | a pinch of so what? | a healthy | portion of wryness and of rue | for the setbacks and the losses | a dedication to moving on | not weighed down with too much possession | but seeing well and seeing far | through lights in the heart | but now | you uneasily discover | is more serious than you had imagined | and nothing at all as described | in the elegant pages of Firefly Epic | Astonished, actually, really astonished | to realise the epoch is not | stable | may not | even be | an epoch | not the epoch of your own | life and interests | but a horrible cage of animal puzzles | beasts in the shape of human beings | human beings in the shapes of plants and minerals | poppies and mandragora, diamonds and quartz | and when excuses were all the rage | a significant problem to run out of excuses | And you understand | the signs | You need help | You send | a message

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2015)

Stars started, but | laid aside | Meaning to go back to them | Then the waterfall intervenes | Someone corrects the figures, your glance | is crossed by careless driving and mountain country, the echo more perfect than | the voice that called | Sketched | fire of your | first thought | Pinning words onto the | heavens | Cerulean | Huts of clouds | In that year, you | fell in love, and | left the stars to someone else to | finish

Words | hiss in Shakespeare’s notebook | forged | horseshoes | dipped in water | Minds running over | wild country, over | tramlines and icemelt | In that year | goldrush in a teacup | a cardiac surge | boy racers and drug users | the green | light at the end of the jetty, the red | cupids on amphetamines | No time to | adjust your stance | Star horses | stampede and you | go under their hooves and | cry out | but they have | other strangers to rush through | Hearing | pins drop | the cooled | silence stands | and the huts of clouds | take hours to drift over and | away | across permanent skies | of vanishing | cerulean | blue

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2012)

Helpless | Lay the heads of the angels gently down, they have | worked the long day through, though the fields | appear untouched | Fold their wings | creaking | awkwardly beneath them, have they never | needed sleep before, has weakness | not assailed them? | Can you not adapt to the bright | void where the synapse asks | and is not answered, or only with | more light, more light, yet | more light, with no | darkness to hang a scale upon, no shadow | to aid orient or to hint, at least, of depth, tomorrows or directions | only an absolute dazzle without edge or core | so we | lay the toys of our questions down, and simply cease, yet | cannot | cease, but simply | wait, yet | simply | go…

Brute | Showing the bible to a seagull | Years of famine, the Chinese | drummed all the sparrows out of the air and killed them | for eating grain | so the locusts came | and ate the crops | so the people starved | only not | the leaders | A fear of telephones is not so foolish | Fear of voices at the end | of the line, fear | of silence or ringtones, fear | a voice may vanish from the realm of sound | forever | One must be sensible | adult | rational | this is what the world is made for | the clunk and jostle in a march of rocks, the delicate | spray of ferns animated | by the waterfall’s jets, the | steaming exclamation of geysers, the exquisite | creep and fume of desert dunes, these are each | made for our reasons, our + and – and our @ | Ask the dead, therefore, to | remain dead, to lie | so very still | decay, of course, in the correct way | according to the natural laws | and all this rolling glitter in our heads | this gold and silver of disturbance | its time is over | Forgive me, then, as, helpless | I am asked “Flower” and answer “Flesh”, am told | “Honey” and answer “Steel” | Can’t | make the proper kind of sense | to hold things in the place agreed, but instead | drop the Zen stones and panic | Be | bitter in the sweet hereafter | restless, ever | malcontent | grow more dullard and less quick, mossbound, with a slow | limestone drip | When the mountain | closes over the children, let me | be among those inside the mountain | not left, alone, trying to remember | how the music went, not left, alone, trying | to forget | the music…

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2013)

Temporary home | A stateless existence | You hardly call, I get the odd message, the wind | shovels leaves about | drop a star into a paper cup | A dead horse drags us around | we untie it from the cart sometimes | flog it mournfully | tenderly, almost | then when we can’t | care anymore | lash it back to the cart, set out again | stumbling among the cars and vases | the promotions and flings | It’s a kind of quantum film | Larry’s saying | It’s about the gaps between points of view | Maybe | No, really | This time it’s Jem-Jem speaking | It’s about the arbitrary nature of narrative | You say: It’s too long | I stand outside, smoking, looking in through the glass wall | at the hyper-cool design | you sitting at the bar with the boys | and Sam | forever checking her fucking phone | I think | how faded and old-fashioned this place will seem | in a few years’ time | how those fine | columns of space we inhabit at this moment | will be vacated in a little while | and fresh occupants will take them up | plotting their own stories | devising plans | new ways to allocate | the world of resource at their fingertips | Could be in a bar in some backwater in rural Croatia, or Poland, or whatever | Jem-Jem tells us | And this could be on the screen, but we don’t speak Croatian, so we don’t know what they’re saying | why she pulls a gun | So it all depends on the point of entry | the type of visa | the local language | the degree of engagement | the history and craft of the gun-makers | It’s warm for this time of year | and once again | I join the huddle of elegant refugees | smoking on the pavement | Is Jem-Jem right? | I wonder | Are we all being screened? | It’s post-modernity, right there, right in front of your eyes | Larry insists | …quintessence of the contemporary, or some old shit… Sam carps, nasal as ever, scrolling | We go back | the house bright and calm in the early hours | and among these strange, new moments | and white orchids | the way we smile before saying goodnight | an ancient sadness

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2014)

Going back over old ground, finding | the ruins have flowered | Angry | the robins are not as you left them | Cobwebs | littered with fallen stars | clinging | Scraped walls | cracked plaster | the bared floorboards | A place set to zero | still ticks | with icicles and red raw hands | You old | compound ghost | a beggar hoisting a bundle of sticks | on your back | You burn the inventory, over and over | and crave the actuality of winter | If you are so alone, then | whose voices are these you hear | perpetually | and who places | in the twilight | corners of November | these green | shivers of spring?

For Sale signs | Spiders creeping over | lost wishes | Pacing the endless | circuits of memory | Asking the water from the hosepipe | to fall as it should do | not to | shimmy with unpredictable glitter | Parking the car | Pushing the pram | Ashes of tortoise shells, ambient | calligraphy of wear | all the sleepless | nights | Snow covers the details, but then snow is a detail | Why must it stay? | And vanish? | And return, sometimes, hit from you by | the furious martial ecstasy of robins? | It was dead, in your hands | How can that be | a source of relief? | And why do you grieve, finding | that decay | blossoms?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2012)